


A lacy experiment

by SweetDreamsAreMadeOfThis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, John's POV, M/M, two idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23733256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetDreamsAreMadeOfThis/pseuds/SweetDreamsAreMadeOfThis
Summary: Sherlock in lingerie... for science!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 66





	A lacy experiment

Routine days didn't exist in 221B Baker Street.

There were no Sunday night blues, no thank-God-it's-the-weekend Fridays, no grocery-shopping-dedicated Saturday afternoons. Only cases and days off in-between. And the occasional whatever-can-keep-Sherlock-Holmes-busy conundrum when 'days off' stretched to 'weeks off'.

That day, a Thursday in early June, was an errand day. John was the one in charge, of course. Sherlock didn't have time for it. Well, he _had_ , technically. But it wasn't of any interest to him. John couldn't blame him: he was quite bored at the prospect of completing mundane tasks himself. But it had to be done. And they could only rely on Mrs. Hudson for so long. She wasn't their housekeeper after all!

That day, then, after a couple of hours spent running between the post office, the laundrette, Sherlock's own dry-cleaner (Posh Boy didn't want just _anyone_ to take care of his clothes) and the nearest convenience store for refilling, John came home.

As he reached the front steps of the building, he instinctively looked up and caught a glimpse of Sherlock at the window above him, his dark-hair-framed face just visible in the gap his long fingers had made in the curtains. John smiled at him and the figure disappeared.

_Mmm! Coming down to give me a hand, maybe?_ John mused. _That would be nice._

To his dismay — but as expected, really — no one was waiting for him in the hall when he finally managed to open the door, despite his hands full with bags. _Was too good to be true,_ he smiled for himself, making his way up the stairs to the flat.

As he got to the second mid-landing, ready to quip in Sherlock's direction about how he was grateful for his help, he noticed that the doors of the flat were both closed. _That's unusual_ , he frowned. But then, what wasn't with Sherlock?

An indulgent smile on his lips, he staggered up the last flight of stairs and stopped by the main door — the one that overlooked the living room — juggling with his bags to turn the handle and push it open.

“Don't worry, I can mana—” he began, and then froze.

Before him, at the very same window he had seen him earlier, Sherlock was standing. Naked. Except for a piece of lingerie. White lace lingerie. Barely covering up his hip and… John swallowed… crotch. He was leaning from side-on with his left hand against the wall, thin fingers spread on the wallpaper, his other arm casually hanging next to him, his right leg held back so one could admire the inside of the thigh opposite — and what was between them.

_Jesus…_

John licked his lips, mouth staying dropped open at the sight. Warm daylight shone on the front of Sherlock's lean, pale body through the curtains, highlighting every salience and hollow in a sublime play of shadows, and John could make out the curve of his cock underneath the transparent lace pattern. He swallowed hard again.

“Sherl... What are you…”

His voice had come out in a faint whisper; the only sound he was capable of right now. He couldn't tear his gaze off the see-through lace work that wrapped up Sherlock's pretty little package; a pretty little package that he was burning to cup and rub and—

“Oh, you're here.”

The familiar velvety baritone cut John's dirty thoughts short and made his eyes shot up. Sherlock had turned his head in his direction and was looking at him, a cheeky smirk on his full lips.

“You took your time.”

John stared into Sherlock's face, trying to ignore the tingling heat building inside him. “I… I, um…” he stammered, unable to think — and to stop himself from glancing down at his partner's lower region. “Wh–what is…”

“It's a new item I ordered last week and which arrived today,” Sherlock cut off, straightening up from the wall and turning to face him. “Do you like it?”

John eyed the piece of lingerie once more, feeling a twitch in his pants as he imagined his palm and fingers against that lovely bulge. “I— Yes, a lot…” he breathed out, running an eager tongue over his drying lips.

Sherlock smiled and stepped forward, slowly, letting John enjoy the view at his leisure. Because the bastard knew. He knew how to make John weak. Dressed to the nines in his tailored suit and coat, covered in mud after a chase, or wrapped in their bed sheets with tousled hair… He just had to give him _that_ look — that intense stare from his striking mint green eyes, with that almost imperceptible wry smile — and John would melt.

“Do you need a hand with these?” Sherlock asked, gesturing down.

John followed his gaze and realised that he was still holding the bags from his errands. “Oh, um… Y-yeah, if you don't mind.”

“Not at all.”

His eyes fixed on John, he stopped right in front of him and reached for the bags, taking them from John's hands. John shivered at the touch and stared back into Sherlock's face, achingly close to his own as the detective towered over him, his rosy lips within reach.

_The fucking bastard. He's revelling in this, isn't he?..._

A heavy pounding in his chest (and a growing throbbing in his pants), John remained still while Sherlock stood back up to his full height and, with a last teasing look, headed for the kitchen. As he did, John couldn't help his eyes from slipping down Sherlock's large and finely-toned back to… his arse. Left virtually naked by the lace disappearing between his ravishing buttocks.

_Jesus…_

Before he could take a closer look at the exquisite display, the lean and bare figure vanished out of sight. John followed it to the kitchen and stopped on the threshold, watching his beloved unpack the shopping bags.

A playful smile was floating on his lips, and even though he wouldn't look at him, John knew what he was thinking: _I have him in the palm of my hand_. And, well… he was right. He had him. Entirely. From his mind to his body and soul… he had him.

As Sherlock turned round to put the fresh supplies away in the fridge, John got a chance to see a bit more of the lacy underwear, and his eyes widened with delight at the discovery of a detail he had overlooked earlier: intertwined straps, bridging a gap of skin in the small of his back.

_Gosh, this is lovely. Lovely and… incredibly hot._

“I don't know what's sexier,” he remarked while Sherlock continued to sort out the groceries, “You in lingerie or you doing domestic chores.”

The joke brought a smug grin on the detective's face. “Both?”

“I suppose so, yeah,” John chuckled, his gaze following Sherlock's every movement with increasing lust.

Usually, the sole sight of his long and thin hands busying around was enough to give him ideas when he was in the mood. But today, he didn't even know where to look. Bare chest, bare arse, bare shoulders, bare arms, bare stomach, bare thighs… bare milky skin all around that he was longing to touch and feel and kiss.

His jeans getting tighter by the second, John stepped across the room and watched as Sherlock made his way to the cupboards above the sink, the muscles in his back rippling in motion as he lifted his arms to put a pair of tins away.

“Enjoying the show?...” Sherlock asked, turning on his heels with a fixed smirk to grab another pair of tins from the bags.

John looked him in the eye and licked his lower lip in a more than suggestive way. “Oh yeah.”

His initial surprise and bumbling attempts to string two words together had made way to an unabashed desire and husky tone, and he could feel the blood pumping through his veins and cock just by thinking about what he was going to do to him.

_Posh Boy doesn't know what's coming..._

As Sherlock turned again to put the last supplies in the upper cupboard, John strode up to him and seized him by the hips, pressing his mouth to Sherlock's marble-like skin between his shoulder blades. The initiative made Sherlock quiver and giggle.

“I was wondering when you were going to… 'launch the attack',” he teased, a hint of excitement in his voice.

John smiled and placed a few wet kisses on his back, right hand sliding from Sherlock's hip to his arse, stroking it gently but firmly. “I was waiting for the right opportunity,” he said, running a finger up his crack along the lace.

Sherlock stiffened and took a sharp breath. “Well… you… found it…”

The audacity he had demonstrated in the beginning was starting to fade, and it showed. He sounded croaky, taut; like he always did when he was trying to keep control of himself. But John knew it wouldn't take long for him to lose his grip. Not with him in charge.

“You look… absolutely gorgeous…” he whispered against Sherlock's skin, feeling it shiver under his lips. “Utterly… painfully…” He drew out the pause, slipping his busy hand down the front of Sherlock's lingerie to cup his groin through the lace. “… gorgeous…”

Sherlock tensed up again and threw his curly head backwards with a gasp, cock twitching in John's palm — whose own responded in kind.

“God, Sherl…”

Breathing hot against Sherlock's back, John pressed himself closer and began to stroke in long, hard motions, fingers playing with the outline of Sherlock's ball sack and still-flaccid prick under the fabric. He could feel it clench every time he would come across its head, Sherlock's breath growing thicker with every rub.

John was in no better shape. His little teasing game was getting him just as worked up as Sherlock, and the throbbing sensation in his boxers was becoming particularly uncomfortable, to say the least. But he enjoyed himself too much to stop. He wanted Sherlock to lose all the control he had left. He wanted to drive him near the edge, make him beg for more. And oh boy, was he gonna beg.

“J–John…”

The hoarse and panting call sent a jolt down John's spine. “Yes?...”

“We should… go to…” Sherlock began, and then bit back a moan.

John closed his eyes at the sound, landing more kisses on his lover's skin to try and ignore the burning heat settling in his loins. “To?...”

“… the bedroom…”

“We should, yeah…” John conceded, reaching inside Sherlock's underwear to set his hardening cock free instead.

The impromptu gesture made Sherlock squirm and he sucked in a fluttering breath, his hands looking for the rim of the sink. “Oh you bast—” he let out in a sigh, keeping the full offense away from his posh mouth.

John flashed a devilish smile. “Yes?...”

“I should have… seen it coming…”

“From miles away, yeah… But then you're not in a condition to think, are you?...” John quipped while his loosely closed fist started to bob up and down.

Sherlock's fingers clasped at the edges of the sink. “Not— really, no…”

“Mmm, suspected as much.”

A short and jerky laugh escaped the detective's lips. “Inspector John Watson… Scotland Yard's… finest sleuth…”

“Shut up!” John grinned, squeezing him in his working hand in retaliation. As he did, Sherlock's audible smile withered away and a low groan slipped out of his mouth, to John's utmost relish. “Not laughing much anymore, eh?” he gloated, nipping at his shoulder.

Before Sherlock could answer, John pushed his bulging crotch into him and quickened the pace of his fist, letting out a grunt as Sherlock's hips arched against him.

“Jesus, Sh…”

John closed his eyes once more, a sharp tingle running down his body. He could feel the curves of Sherlock's buttocks around his groin as distinctly as he would without clothes, and the mere thought of _being there_ was making his cock twitch in a painful way.

_God, if I listened to myself…_

Biting at Sherlock's shoulder again to distract his body from its urges, John tightened the grip of his unemployed hand on Sherlock's hip and focused on the twist and turns of his moving wrist, not leaving any part of his lover's length untouched.

Sherlock was getting rock-solid now. John could sense every pulsation of hot blood under his curled fingers, and a faint moistness gathering on his skin. And fuck was it arousing. His breathing was getting heavier too, more and more laboured as John sped up and pulled, and soon only deep sounds were coming out of his outstretched throat.

“J–John… P–please… We really should… go to…”

Like the first time, Sherlock didn't manage to finish the sentence; but unlike the first time, John wasn't in the mood to play anymore — he wanted it over as much as Sherlock.

“You're right, you're right…” he gasped, slowing down the pace before stopping altogether. As Sherlock sighed with relief, John gently pressed his cock up against his belly and rubbed it up with the palm of his hand in a last caress, kissing the warm skin of his back. “Let's go.”

Taking a step back, he waited for Sherlock to turn around, and when he did, John couldn't help but stare at the beautiful tableau before him: Sherlock Holmes, with flushed cheeks and parted lips, standing breathless in nothing but lingerie in the middle of their kitchen, full erection pointing out of his lacy underwear, held up in place by the elastic fabric.

John smiled. “Come here,” he murmured, holding out both his hands to Sherlock. His foggy eyes fixed on him, Sherlock obeyed and placed his hands into John's, who squeezed them with a tender look. “Let's go.”

With all the care in the world, John led him backwards out of kitchen and in the corridor, grinning all the way to the bedroom. When they finally stepped through the open door, John made him stop and slowly let go of his hands, seizing his face to kiss him.

It was a sweet, languorous kiss; not an urgent or needy one. Despite the fire raging inside him, John wanted to make Sherlock feel safe, to make him feel loved more than just desired, even though he was. Oh God, he was.

As he opened his eyes to meet Sherlock's, John had the pleasant surprise to see that Sherlock still had them closed. He smiled again. _Just like the first time we kissed… What an adorable man…_ Stroking his lover's cheekbones with his thumbs, John placed another kiss on his lips, then on his nose, then at the corner of his mouth, until Sherlock's lids fluttered up.

“Hello again…” John purred.

“Hello…” Sherlock muttered in answer, his voice the lowest of baritones.

The mist in his pale eyes was as dense as it was a few moments earlier, but a gleam of longing anticipation was now piercing through it.

“Thought I'd lost you somewhere,” John continued, tip of his nose brushing against Sherlock's.

“Not a chance.”

With a besotted smirk, John kissed him once more and reached for the door behind him to push it close, rubbing his cheek at Sherlock's jaw on the way back.

“Lie down,” he whispered to his ear, nibbling at his earlobe.

The teasing command made Sherlock tremble and give a long, flustered sigh. “Yes, captain,” he whispered back, offering John the rawest and most lustful look as he faced him again.

John stared at him with his lips pursed. “Want to play it like this?”

“I want everything you want.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“Mmm… Well, let's start with you lying down then, shall we? And that's an order this time.”

A naughty smile crossed Sherlock's face. “Yes, sir,” he complied, sitting on the edge of the bed and laying back across the rumpled bedding, his mint green eyes resolutely locked on John.

_God, look at you_ , John thought as he let his gaze up and down Sherlock's sculptural-like body. _You are perfect. Perfect._

Biting at his lower lip, he hopped one on foot to the other to take his shoes off and slowly climbed onto the bed, hoisting himself up on top of his lover.

“You're doing well, soldier,” he smirked when he reached his angelic face, craning his neck down to kiss him.

Sherlock's mouth stretched against his. “Am I?”

“Oooh yes.”

With another smile, John drifted towards his neck and traced a line of lazy kisses along his pale throat, causing Sherlock's head to fall backwards — and his skin to shiver. Hard.

He loved being kissed. Anywhere. And God was his body kissable. Everywhere John's lips would go, they'd find smooth, delicate flesh. He smelled wonderfully nice too; a subtle mix of soap, lotion, Cologne and natural scent that made John lose any sense of reality when he began to explore every inch of him. He could spend hours just brushing his mouth over him, breathing him in, touching, kissing, licking, biting… He wouldn't get tired of it. And he knew he never would.

As he made his way down Sherlock's chest, John felt a hand rush to his hair, its fingertips clinging to the shorter strands at his nape. He smiled. He was getting close to a sensitive area; one that sealed the beginning of the end for Sherlock, every single time.

Shifting his weight a little, John freed a hand to hold onto Sherlock's side while his lips moved across and closed around one of his nipples. The wet and hot contact drew a moan out of Sherlock, who arched against John's mouth in a clear invitation to continue. John looked up and grinned at him, offering the pricked-up nipple another suck.

“God, John…”

Not willing to give him any respite, John shifted again and preyed on the other peak of flesh, flicking his tongue over it before taking it into his mouth altogether, sucking and tickling, watching for Sherlock's reaction.

It wasn't long in coming, and it came as expected.

John knew him inside out — what he liked, what he didn't like, what turned him into a whimpering mess, what made him uncomfortable, where he loved to be touched, where he didn't want John to linger, how he preferred to be handled, when he preferred to be handled… _Everything Irene Adler would have known if she had been given the chance_ , John smirked for himself. After all, it had been her specialty, her bargaining chip, as she used to brag about. Probably still was. But she didn't get that chance. _I did_.

John knew every part of Sherlock by heart, every gasp, every groan. He knew exactly when to stop or when to keep going, when to slow down or when to spice things up. He knew every glint in his eyes, every pleading or dazy look, every shade his gaze could take on, from sky blue to dark emerald. And yet it felt as if he was rediscovering him over and over again. _Something Irene Adler will never get to experience_ , he rejoiced some more as he watched Sherlock squirm and writhe in pleasure under him, chin tilted to the ceiling. _I'm so bloody lucky_ …

A fuzzy and happy feeling in his heart, John licked his way up to Sherlock's jaw and captured his gaping lips to resume their kiss where they had left it, making it rougher and bitey this time around. The hand in his hair tensed and soon Sherlock responded in kind, his quickening breath mingling with John's in messy unison.

“God, you…” John growled in between kisses, dizzy with sensations that were getting sharper by the second. He couldn't feel anything but Sherlock's lips and tongue, and his own hardening-again cock pressing against the flies of his jeans — and Sherlock's almost bare crotch. _God, if only I could tear them off right now and be done with it…_

But he didn't want to rush it, still. He didn't want to give in, not now, not yet. He wanted to make it last, to make Sherlock come undone bit by bit, entirely, unapologetically. And oh boy, was he going to.

Leaning on him with his full body, John grabbed one of Sherlock's naked thighs and deepened the kiss, licking and nipping at the bow of his bottom lip while his hand played with the underside of his lover's leg, from the line of his arse to the pit of his knee. Once again, he felt Sherlock's skin crawl with delight at his touch, and he couldn't help but smile, breaking off the kiss to look at him.

“I love you,” he whispered, caressing Sherlock's lush mouth with his.

Sherlock gazed at him through bliss-heavy lids with a hint of the same smile. “I love you too…”

Fingers tangled in his curly hair, John gave him another long, slow kiss and drifted towards his neck again, sliding down his chest and stomach all through to his navel where he met with his favourite toy.

It was still pointing out of Sherlock's underwear, lying there on his lower abdomen, glistening, hard and eager. And as John's breath ghosted over it, Sherlock's hips gave a little jerk, the muscles in his stomach rippling in a lovely wave. _Oooh he's ready alright_ , John thought with gleeful pride.

Moving to a more comfortable position, he glanced up just in time to catch Sherlock looking down at him. His breath was shallow, constricted, and his eyes sparkling with a zealous impatience that made John feel even more pleased with himself. _Champing at the bit, eh? Well you're going to have to wait. I'm gonna take my sweet little time with you, Posh Boy. My sweet, sweet little time._

His gaze locked on Sherlock's face, John brought his mouth to the head of Sherlock's cock and started kissing it, one peck after the other, his lips pressing ever so slightly to the curves of the exposed crown and the sensitive skin retracted underneath, just enough to make it clench — and see Sherlock's chin tilt all the way back in obvious enjoyment.

“John…” he called, his voice getting lost at the other side of the room.

The hand that never left John's hair clasped his nape and Sherlock's legs spread further, his whole body twisting in a tortuous and restless dance, hips rocking up and down in slow and almost imperceptible motions against John's mouth to incite him to go further.

John grinned inside. _Patience, Posh Boy, patience_. _All good things come to those who can wait. And you're gonna have to wait a little more._

Holding him down by the waist, John carried on and kissed his way down Sherlock's length, inch by inch, appreciating the soft and hardly veiny texture under his lips.

God, did he love his cock. He loved everything about him, really. But his cock was one of those parts of Sherlock's body that made John go gaga, with his curls and eyes and lips and hands. And voice. Jesus, his voice. His damn pants-wetting, boner-inducing sultry voice. One look, one touch, one word, and John was inevitably done for. He just couldn't resist him.

But his _cock_ – God, he could admire it for nights on end. Admittedly, he hadn't had much experience with men's bodies. James Sholto was the only man he ever had a relationship with, and a short one at that, so male intimacy was still new to him. Or at least, not as familiar as intimacy with women. It was no surprise, then, that Sherlock had left such an impression. He had fallen head over heels with him immediately — and outright. His brain, his heart, his body… he adored every tiny part of him. Everything that made him who he was.

But _that_ cock… was a piece of art.

As he reached the limit between skin and lace, John hooked his fingers around the elastic band and pulled it down to set Sherlock's artwork-made-flesh completely free, planting further kisses until there was no more length to cover.

“John…” Sherlock called again, this time in a more desperate and needy way, his hips giving an involuntary thrust against John's face.

John looked up at the contorting body above him and shushed him with a caress on his arm. “I hear you, Love. I got you,” he whispered in a soothing tone, and without making him wait any longer, licked his way back up to take him into his mouth.

For a second, Sherlock stilled in place, frozen, silent… until a choked-up groan burst out of his throat and shook his body out of stiffness, leaving it trembling like a leaf, his voice and breath turning into an equally shaky mess while his fingers clutched at anything 'John' within their reach.

Keeping him warm between his lips, John loosened the hand gripping at his wrist to intertwine it with his own and began to suck gently, first at the swollen head, then a couple of inches farther down, working him with his full tongue in slow rubbing or swirling motions, eyes half-closed to savour the musky flavour of his skin.

God, he tasted good. And he _felt_ good, too. He was not too big, certainly not too small. His size was just right. And even though John's lips were thin, they stretched comfortably around his girth. He had the perfect mouth for him, really. Just like Sherlock had the perfect mouth for John. But what he loved most about Sherlock was how sensitive he was — _extremely_ sensitive. He always had been, but experience didn't make him less responsive to any of John's attentions, quite the opposite. And today wasn't an exception.

It didn't take deduction skills for John to tell that Sherlock was already losing his mind. His cock was throbbing; hot blood pumping through it and making it deliciously warm against John's tongue; and its turgid head was leaking with each stroke. Every time John bobbed up and wrapped his mouth around Sherlock's crown, a deep and hoarse sound would come from his lover's lips, adding to the moans pouring out of him – and to John's frustrated excitement.

It wouldn't take long for him to come, John knew it. And he also knew that if he chose to speed up, Sherlock wouldn't be able to contain himself one more minute. But he would not choose to do that; not this time. This time was special. And he wanted to make the most of it; honour this wonderful and gorgeous man — _his_ man — the way he deserved: thoroughly, reverently, voluptuously. Even if for John, this meant waiting some more.

With the one of his hands that had been idle so far, John reached inside Sherlock's half-pulled-down underwear and started fondling with the delicate skin of his lower parts, squeezing and cupping them in his palm while he continued to suck, gentle and soft, with his cheeks hollowed.

The combined attentions were quick to whip Sherlock up into a frenzy of whimpers, causing his hips to buck harder. “J–John!…” he cried out, his baritone dying out in heavy gasps.

Glancing up, John hummed a playful “Mmm?...” and paused to run the flat of his tongue along one side of Sherlock's shaft, then over the dripping slit. That last move sent a violent jolt down Sherlock's spine who clutched John's hand before gripping the sheets into his fist instead, his legs jerking dangerously.

“J–John… I'm— I'm com— John!...”

Despite his call, John sealed his lips tighter around him and kept on sucking, teasing the rim of his head in quick side rubs until the awaited first surge of warm, salty cum shot against the roof of his mouth, Sherlock's climatic grunt echoing simultaneously around the room. Before he could have a taste of a second one, John pulled away and watched as Sherlock unloaded onto his own chest, cock twitching with every spurt, his offered throat giving a few final groans while his entire frame spasmed in rhythm, highlighting every contracted muscle in his stomach, arms, thighs…

John skipped a breath, his body flaring up. _Jesus, he is magnificent_ …

Unable to wait any longer, John straightened up with one knee on the mattress and scrambled to unzip the flies of his jeans, letting out a growl of relief as he freed his cock from his precum-stained boxers. It was steel-hard — and about to burst in his fist.

Biting his lips, he looked at Sherlock's figure sprawled across the bed and started pumping, fast, gaze fixed on his lover and his chest covered in thick, white cum; his white, marble-like skin; his white, lacy underwear…

“FUCK!...”

The word escaped him like a punch to the gut and he slammed his eyes shut, mouth wide open, jerking pleasure out of him in frantic strokes and with resounding moans as he sprayed Sherlock's stomach in turn.

Every squirt felt like a rush of newly-found heaven, and for a moment, in a flash of fuzzy yet limpid memory, John saw himself back in that very room, on that very bed, when he and Sherlock had touched for the first time — and released the tension that had been building up between them for five years. He could still hear Sherlock's voice, calling out his name and encouraging him with panted yes's, just like it was now.

Following it like a lighthouse in the storm, John peered through the haze and let out an aborted curse at the sight of Sherlock's heavy-lidded eyes, flushed cheeks and dishevelled curls, squeezing the last drops of ecstasy from his throbbing cock.

“God…”

It was the only word he eventually managed to give form to, his tongue sticking to his palate as he did. His ears were buzzing, and his body boiling hot from exertion. He could feel waves of clammy heat oozing out of his collar and open trousers, making his head spin even more that it already did. But he didn't give a toss. He had reached a place where nothing mattered, except the divine flow of endorphins running through his system.

“Well…” Sherlock panted, the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth, “I believe we can safely say that… this was a successful experiment…”

“More than successful…” John panted back, before his foggy mind caught up. “Wait— experiment?...”

“Kind of. I suspected that it would make a strong impression on you… but I had not anticipated the full extent of it.”

“You?... Not anticipating?...” John teased.

“It happens,” Sherlock smiled.

“I still can surprise you, then. Good to know.”

“You always surprise me.”

“And so do you.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock remarked, and with a shared look, made the pair of them giggle.

“Ooooh…”

Feeling weak on his legs, John dropped to his side and flopped down on his back next to Sherlock, closing his eyes for a couple of seconds to catch his breath.

“Do you plan on buying more?...”

“Definitely.”

“And… will you need my input?”

“Need it? No. But I'd love to have it.”

A large grin on their faces, both turned their heads and gazed at each other in the most tender and blissfully stupid way, knowing it full well but not caring at all, their lazy fingers interlacing among the messy sheets.

God, did John love him.

And God, did Sherlock love him too. It was all there — in the dissipating mist of his pale green eyes, the wrinkles at their corners, the dimples in his cheeks, the softness of his features. Here was Sherlock Holmes, the World's Greatest Detective, and the most beautiful, big-hearted, loveful human being he had ever known.

“What are you thinking about?” Sherlock beamed, drawing John out of his mind.

John beamed back at him. “You. Us.”

“And?”

“Nothing, I… I'm just happy.”

At his words, Sherlock's hand tightened its embrace and his eyes blinked slowly as if to say the same, his face glowing with joy and fondness. “Me too,” he whispered, and bringing the back of John's hand to his lips, kissed it.

The two men remained looking at one another for some time, fingers playing with fingers, smiles answering smiles, bodies moving closer and mouths reaching for skin. No words; only looks and touches… and them. Just them. Against the rest of the world.

“So…” John said at last, his lips pressed to Sherlock's shoulder. “Bathroom?”

“I _think_ it is needed, yes,” Sherlock replied, ironical. “Coming with me?”

“Oooh yes.”

Sherlock smirked at John's enthusiasm. “You won't see anything new this time, you know.”

“I don't need to. I mean, I don't mind surprises, especially _that_ kind of surprises…” John added with a blushing chuckle, the tip of his fingers skimming over the crumpled lacy underwear pulled down below Sherlock's hips, “… but I don't need them to keep loving you. I hope you know that?”

“I know.”

“Good.” He turned on his side and leaned up on an elbow. “I love you for who you are, always have and always will. You know that too, right?”

“I do.”

“Perfect,” John smiled.

For quite some time again, both lay gazing at each other in content silence, John tracing invisible lines on Sherlock's resting arm and kissing his face, here and there, until Sherlock brought them back to reality.

“So… bathroom?” he asked, mimicking John's question from a moment earlier.

John nodded, elated. “Bathroom.”


End file.
